


Archivist's Stash

by svenharel (svensationalist)



Series: le mode recto verso [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svensationalist/pseuds/svenharel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tabris contemplates about the scattered pieces of stories he has gathered from all around Ferelden, and decides that they need to be archived.  The introduction of sorts to many fanfics inspired by codex entries that have intrigued me.  <i>“One day if I have the time, I may just cobble all of these little histories, poems, songs, legends, and notes together. After all, it’d be a shame if nobody else knows about them, and this way I can add even more to Wynne’s perfectly respectable collection of fine literature."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Archivist's Stash

**Author's Note:**

> Against my better judgement (which is currently screaming "Grr. Argh!" at me because university final exams are nigh), I've decided to write fanfic about codex entries that have interested me enough to spawn plot jellyfish in my mindspace. Starting with Origins, because I have not trawled through the codices of Dragon Age II yet.
> 
> Therefore, without much further ado, the 'introduction' of sorts to this series. Title inspired by a Warden-exclusive belt of similar name.

Spindly fingers brushed aside cobwebs, then grasped at a forlorn piece of parchment wedged within a stone crevice. The bony hand slowly withdrew with its prize, and a carefully directed gust of air blew away some of the dust which covered the fragment of history. A smile stretched the thin lips which had moments before unleashed a purposeful gust, whimsy hiding in the corners and behind slightly revealed teeth.

Tabris was an obsessive hoarder, that much he knew. Perhaps it was due to unwillingness to let things go after he had lost so much. It could be that he was just lonely, and these little pieces of people from the past and present made him feel connected to them. Maybe it was because it was his first and only time outside of Denerim and its alienage, and his overactive curiosity finally found an outlet. Possibly, he was only yearning to learn more stories about the world around him as he habitually exhausted tales from family and friend, now moving onto other things. He _was_ fond of stories, hearing them and also telling them. Or it was a combination of a great multitude of things, like many impulses and desires often were.

Whatever the reason, Tabris could not stop touching and taking items long discarded and hidden. His friends would chide him — one more sternly than others with a low gravelly voice filled with disapproval — for wasting time while there was a Blight happening, but he felt the compulsion to stop every time something caught his eye. What was the point of saving Ferelden if you did not appreciate everything about it, including the smaller, seemingly insignificant parts?

“What is it this time?” Alistair sighed, somewhere behind, his voice laden with equal parts amusement and exasperation.

Tabris scanned the faded writing. “More poetry,” he replied fondly, carefully tucking the parchment into his belt for safekeeping and later perusal. Days later, it would join his steadily growing collection of tomes, scrolls, and papers back at camp. “Maybe Zevran will like it,” he added, sniggering as his fellow Warden cringed and wrung hands encased in metal.

“Maker’s breath — _no more poems_ ,” Alistair declared firmly. “If you two _really_ need to flirt with awful verse, go ahead, but do it _away_ from my tent. I’ve had enough poetry from you two… you two _incorrigible elves_.”

“Perhaps they could end the Blight with it!” Morrigan remarked with her usual airy sarcasm, leaning on her staff. “’Tis so awful that the Archdemon may choose to flee instead of hearing more of it.”

“Now you’re just being petty,” Tabris protested. “My poems aren’t _that_ awful.”

“Yes, they are,” Alistair, Morrigan, _and_ Wynne said simultaneously. Tabris pretended to look horrified at the small-scale mutiny. “Alistair and Morrigan I expected, but not all _three_ of you! You too, Wynne? I thought you were on _my_ side, and now I find you rallying _against_ me.”

“Recently, you and Zevran have been offending my good taste in literature,” Wynne said dryly, rolling her eyes.

“Ah yes, good taste… like ‘The Rose of Orlais’, was it?” Tabris quipped, grinning wickedly when the healer coughed softly in embarrassment.

Alistair chuckled. “Maybe we should continue this _after_ we finish our main business? Like the, ah, Blight perhaps? Very important affair, quite urgent, most likely requires our immediate attention. Teasing our elders about their romance novels can wait.”

“Something else to look forward to after all this ends, then,” Tabris said lightly, his tone of voice betraying none of the gnawing anxiety he felt daily about whether the Blight _could_ be ended before Ferelden was decimated. He stood from his kneeling position and brushed the dust and dirt off his knees. “One day if I have the time, I may just cobble all of these little histories, poems, songs, legends, and notes together. After all, it’d be a shame if nobody else knows about them, and this way I can add even more to Wynne’s perfectly respectable collection of fine literature."

It was said as a jest, some good-natured ribbing of comrades, but Tabris found himself turning the idea over and over in his mind. Why _shouldn’t_ he archive everything he uncovered? He tried imagining the many stories he found being lost again, and he frowned deeply. He was no Dalish elf obsessed with reclaiming past glory, but the loss of his people’s history still stung as he sometimes wondered what their lives could have been, _should_ have been.  Some things are better forgotten, but not all things. With that conclusion in mind, he decided that he’d give all these lost tales a home once more pressing matters were dealt with. _Something else to look forward to after all this ends_ , he thought the words reiterated silently with new meaning and promise.

Morrigan interrupted hopeful musing with a derisive scoff. “’Tis a meaningless endeavour that will bring you naught but frustration. Much of these fragments you have found are incomplete. What, pray tell, would you do to compensate for all these missing pieces of information?”

Tabris shrugged nonchalantly. “The usual, I suppose: fabricate half-truths. I’m sure a lot of history is part fact and part nugshit anyway.” He stretched out a stiff back before smiling widely at his companions. “Now, speaking of nugshit…"

Alistair groaned with heartfelt disgust. “Maker, I think I hate Orzammar…” he grumbled.

“You and me both, my friend,” Tabris lied blithely, mind already wandering to the treasure trove of tales that awaited them.


End file.
